


Tranquilize

by lovelessly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Forced Crossdressing, Historical, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Stockholm Syndrome, World War II, all sorts of triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelessly/pseuds/lovelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(extremely old kink meme fill reposted here for archive purposes)</p><p>For the prompt - Germany/France with the occupation of Vichy leadin' to some Stockholm syndrome lovins. Bonus: Germany develops feelings for France as well eventually~ I decided to go the oft-used but never not traumatizing darker route, so as to best fit the prompt, the history between the two nations and my own preferences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tranquilize

His prison was an airy, fully furnished room in an elegant hotel in the heart of Paris, his bonds made of soft silk so as to not chafe, his guards especially handsome results of decades of German breeding. Every day, a chef would prepare his favorite meals, and every evening, his best friend, his former best friend, would visit and keep him company for exactly twenty minutes.

But he could not keep the food down, no matter how delicious, and though the guards were explicitly ordered to not leave a visible mark, he could still feel them inside of his body long after the sessions ended. At least now he had nothing left to vomit, no voice to scream or tears to cry, not even strength to fight back, because the medicine the doctors had given him had seen to that. Perhaps tonight would be different, he thought, but he had hoped so every night for the past thirty nights, and so far nothing changed the clockwork routine.

He could hear the thump of boots outside his door, the pause as the soldier checked this task off the list, and he let his mind drift off into a protective sort of numbness, far past thoughts of rebellion or despair.

Upon entering the room, Germany’s eyes flicked over the figure lying on the bed, a furrow already starting to develop between pale blond brows. He had been led to believe by his brother that the occupation had gone smoothly, that reports of an organized resistance movement had been greatly exaggerated, and that the rest of the country submitted to the terms of the armistice with as much grace as one can expect of the French people. But one would not know it looking at the nation before him, naked and tied to the bed, gagged and blindfolded until they saw fit to unbind him, ribs and hipbones showing through thin dry skin.

Frowning, Germany set his clipboard down and untied the blindfold and gag, tossing them into the trash receptacle. Dull blue eyes stared into his, blinking slowly in recognition and then closing again, as if the effort of acknowledging his captor would be too much.

“It will not take too long, Frankreich. I will not hurt you.”

There was no answer, and Germany began his inspection without further comment. Perhaps unconsciously, France would shift slightly under his hand, sometimes pulling away, sometimes moving closer, and more than once he had to still him in order to continue. Broken bones, scars, bruises - he found only faint already-healing reminders of these, but between the open legs, his fingers accidentally brushed against a damp residue, still fresh and warm. He hurriedly drew his hand away, stomach churning in disgust as he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, and France was already telling him, calmly, almost cruelly, that it was too bad all of that perfectly good Aryan seed had gone to waste despite their best efforts. Though Germany, of course, was free to continue to do what he thought was necessary for himself and his people.

“That is not what I am here for,” but actually it was, in a way, and they both knew it. France had withdrawn into silence again, and Germany cut through the knotted silk ropes carefully, gently rubbing the circulation through bony reddened wrists, avoiding any contact longer than absolutely necessary.

 

After weeks of captivity, France was apparently too weak to walk on his own, or perhaps he would not walk on his own, and to save time, Germany wrapped him in a sheet and carried him to the officer’s suite, hoping he would not meet anyone looking for him. Not that anyone would have raised an objection. Orders were orders: the prisoner was not to leave the hotel, he was not to make contact with the outside world, he was not to be injured unless the general decided otherwise. That was all. No one knew or cared to question further.

 

France felt himself lowered into a bathtub of already cooling water, but he made no move to pick up the soap or washrag handed to him. He watched, bemused, as Germany muttered and took off his jacket, rolling up crisp white sleeves before wielding the bar of soap as if it were a weapon. Though his expression remained stern, his cheeks burned far redder than the meager heat from the bath would have accounted for, and he lathered and scrubbed at France’s hair and skin briskly, cleaning thoroughly enough to make him nearly whimper from the pain.

At last Germany seemed satisfied that he was free of filth, even though shame still permeated under his skin and into his muscles and bones and all the atoms of his body, where soap and water could never reach. He was promptly bundled into a plush robe and deposited into a new bed with satin sheets and soft warm pillows. Quietly, he waited for his wrists to be tied again, his eyes and mouth blocked once more, but Germany did no such thing and just told him to rest and try to eat.

Then France was left to himself, alone in a woman’s boudoir, the velvet curtained windows barred and locked, expensive perfumes set out on the table, and no blade anywhere to slash his wrists or slice his throat. In the darkness, he finally allowed himself to cry, his chest heaving with bitter, dry-eyed sobs.

\-----

He was eating today, Germany noted, only small mouthfuls of bread softened with milk and honey, but as long as they were not forcing anything down his throat, he seemed able to swallow without retching. Germany would have had Prussia’s cronies pay for that, he had their confiscated photographs as proof, if not for France himself asking for clemency.

“They were only following orders, were they not? I do not blame them. Leave them to their work, they are good at it.” France’s smile was the grimace of a corpse, so different from his usual seductive smirk, and Germany took care to not meet those dead doll eyes.

“As you wish.”

They did not attempt an actual conversation, nothing seemed appropriate in the context, but Germany did give a brief report of what was happening in the war, just enough to assure the captive that they were indeed winning. He paused, and when France did not ask about England or America or Canada or anyone else he had loved, he stood up and awkwardly reached over to pat him on the shoulder, mostly because he felt it was required. Suddenly, France grabbed his arm, and Germany found himself shoved back into his chair, the other nation climbing and straddling his lap. Caught off guard, Germany did his best to disengage himself from the clinging, trembling body. Avoiding the dry kisses pressed against his cheek and ear and mouth, he peeled France’s arms from around his neck and maneuvered him back into bed.

“You do not dictate when, I do, is that clear?” Germany admonished, though the effect was ruined by the spots of red that bloomed across his cheekbones when he looked down to see France’s robe fallen open, his pale, nude body exposed underneath him, a whore’s welcoming smile on his parted lips that was not reflected in his eyes. He stepped back, guilty angry thoughts tumbling through his mind, and with a curt farewell, Germany turned on his heel and fled.

\------

Languid, lonely days passed like this for France, isolated from his citizens, from the soldiers who had used him, from even his former best friend who had already departed for the front lines, until it was only Germany he ever saw. It was Germany who brought him his food, watching him eat every bite to make sure he would regain his health, it was Germany who gave him news of the world outside his shuttered window, terse confirmation that their forces were holding strong against the allies, never anything to the contrary. Thus starved, not for food but for attention, France had nothing left to do but to look forward to this excuse for companionship, and soon it consumed his days and nights, his whole world having dwindled to one bright point in Germany.

And although France remembered, barely, to never touch him without asking, Germany sometimes did touch him first, careful little caresses and pats, as if he were a puppy just learning how to behave. Certainly, if he had a tail, he would wag it, if he could do tricks, he would perform them, only he already did for the others before, and Germany would glare at him so exasperatedly whenever he mentioned that.

It made him want to laugh at how ridiculous their interactions have become, except he never laughed these days, simply because he would not be able to stop once he started.

\-----

Today after breakfast, Germany made him sit down at the dressing table while he gathered grooming materials from his own quarters next door: hot water, a bowl, powder, a brush. Since he was not allowed to hold the razor himself, Germany did the shaving, and it took all of his willpower to not tremble as the sharp steel blade scraped across his skin. Just one nick might have felled him in his weakened condition, but Germany’s hand never faltered, and soon his cheeks and jaw were as smooth and soft as a woman’s. He touched his face wonderingly, staring at his reflection, at Marianne gazing back at him, except they had already killed Marianne, hadn’t they, tearing down her proud statues and melting them for artillery, and now he is to be her shoddy replacement. 

“You look much better like this, Frankreich,” Germany murmured, tucking a lock of his hair behind his ear almost approvingly. “Like… one of us.”

“M- Thank you,” he whispered, catching himself in time. The silk robe was slipped off his shoulders, and France kept his eyes fixed on the mirror as Germany inspected his handiwork, fingers sliding over his jaw and down his throat, testing for any missed spot, then brushing over his chest to rest on his still flat belly before withdrawing. Something of a smile had flickered across Germany’s expression, something proud and possessive, and because France had been waiting for this, he recognized it, and clung to that knowledge pitifully.

“There is an officer’s ball tomorrow night, and I would have you accompany me for the evening,” Germany said, staid and proper once more, and France nodded in assent. Not that he could have refused, even if he had a choice.

“Everything has already been taken care of, so there is no need for you to worry,” he went on diffidently. “I will come by with your outfit in the morning. Please rest until then.”

Germany excused himself to attend to the arrangements, but made the mistake of looking back to see France staring after him longingly. There was only a trace of the sullen and revolting nation there, around the tilt of his eyes, in the stubborn line of his jaw, but for now he was beautiful, tamed and groomed, completely dependent on him for survival. Somewhat reluctantly, Germany closed the door and returned to his room, to the consolation of his most private thoughts and desires.

\------

He could hear the bath running next door while he worked on the stacks of documents that needed his attention, and he waited until the sounds of humming and splashing ceased, and the door to the bathroom had closed. Willing his heartbeat to stop racing, Germany headed over to France’s bedroom with the packages in his arms. He only meant to bring the clothes and return to his files, but he ended up staying, watching France sitting at the dressing table wearing only a woman’s corset and nothing else, pulling the pins out of his hair and letting the long golden curls tumble down around his shoulders.

As preoccupied as he was with dressing his hair, France could still catch a glimpse Germany standing some distance behind him in the mirror’s reflection, that rapt blue-ice gaze fixated along the nape of his neck, lingering on the curve of his back that peeked below the bottom edge of the black lace corset. Utterly hypnotized, Germany did not tear his eyes away even after France got up and unwrapped the package to reveal a stunning gown of deep red satin and chiffon overlay. The designer’s label sewn onto the interior seam, the name of a woman he had loved well, a remnant of a previous life he had forgotten about until now, sparked a pain behind his eyes that he had to blink away. For once he was as tongue-tied as Germany was.

Then he had to try it on, and of course the dress fit perfectly, the modest draped neckline concealing what he lacked, a layer of frothy chiffon tightly swathed over the waist and hips to accentuate his contrived curves, the skirt then flaring out liquidly, like water, like blood. Germany was called on to fasten the top set of buttons he could not reach, and he fumbled with the tiny loops, his nose filled with the scent he would always associate with France - roses, dark amber, the ever present tantalizing hint of wine and musk and sex.

“Well, how do I look?” France asked quietly once the dress was buttoned, giving Germany a coy glance through long pale lashes, smiling to see him swallow nervously before answering.

“Y-you look… incredible,” Germany stammered, and would have gone on about their working together as part of the seamless machine of the third reich for another fifteen, twenty minutes if France had not swooped in to kiss him firmly on the lips.

This had the effect of a bombshell on Germany, who turned white and then red as he attempted to pull away.

“You are acting out of line, Frankreich.”

“Forgive me, I could not help myself.” Still smiling, France pressed his body tightly against Germany’s bulk, locking his arms around his neck, as if daring him to mete out punishment, but as uncomfortable as Germany looked, he did not rise to the bait.

“We will deal with this later,” he said, his voice tight to the point of snapping, though his hands were a fraction too slow to leave their place at France’s waist. “My boss will be arriving any moment now, and I must prepare. Stay in your room, and do not leave until I return for you.” France nodded mournfully, stepping back, and Germany felt compelled to add, “I will make it up to you, so… please.” His words, however out of place for their positions, had the desired effect, and thus he left, assured that France would obey him perfectly.

\----

No one announced their arrival, and yet every person there fell silent as they made their way down the staircase of the Lutetia’s grand ballroom. In his imposing black SS uniform, Germany looked the perfect gentleman officer. Clinging to his arm, France glittered in the light of crystal chandeliers, swathed in an ebony fur stole, with diamonds at his throat and a red rose pinned to his golden curls. The conversation resumed, but hushed, briefly speculating as to the identities of the stunning couple before forgetting they ever existed.

There was a moment of awkwardness when they both went to get glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and France remembered with a start that he was not a man any longer, and somewhat below a woman as well.

The Fuhrer made his obligatory speech to the rapt attention of the sycophants below, and because he did not want to be noticed for not doing so, France politely applauded along with everyone else. Several officers and their wives then came by to congratulate Germany, although they were rather vague on the purpose of the congratulations, having only a sense that this young man had done something worth their praise, not knowing he was really their nation in the flesh. Germany thanked them stiffly, and France tossed back his second glass of champagne in a rather unladylike manner.

It actually did not surprise him to see a few of his own here, the ones who had been of enough use to the Germans to be invited to the event, former war heroes turned collaborators, pretty young women enlisted to work as translators, for lack of a better description. Yet France bore no real resentment towards them, only a desultory sort of sympathy, that they should work so hard but never be accepted as full members of the Fuhrer’s master race, forever relegated to, at best, the chefs and the prostitutes. All this, revenge for revenge. France had to stifle a bitter laugh at the pointlessness of everything, and Germany raised an eyebrow.

“Everyone is looking at you,” Germany finally muttered, noting each man who dared to look upon his companion for longer than a second and not sure whether he should feel pleased or perhaps more disgusted.

“Why shouldn’t they look at me, hmm? You were the one who brought me here, and the one who gave me this dress to wear,” France whispered back tartly, and he winked at a girl with dark cropped hair who had been staring at him for the past few minutes and completely ignoring the young lieutenant trying to flirt with her.

“That may have been a mistake.” But orders were orders, and it was not like France was in any position to cause any trouble now. Germany had worked very hard to make certain of it.

“Ah, let me guess, you are feeling jealous, Herr Ludwig?” France simpered, taking the opportunity to run his fingers over Germany’s chest as provocatively as he could. “Why is that, I wonder?” 

Germany attempted his most withering look, honed to perfection after years of dealing with his brother and more recently, Italy, but it was not having its intended effect, and France’s knowing smile was making him flush more than the press of human bodies, the heat of the lights, the layers of his heavy uniform. Now the lieutenant and the girl were both openly staring at them.

“I think we should go now, you are not acting as fit company in public,” Germany said, putting his arm about France’s shoulders and trying to steer him towards the nearest exit.


	2. Hypnotize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bad part, just so you are warned. Some unnamed characters die is the least traumatizing event.

Out of nowhere, Prussia appeared through the doorway in front of them, still in his SS officer’s uniform and grinning his death’s head grin. 

“Brother! Just the person I needed to talk to!” he called out over the noise of conversation, and frowning, Germany strode over to see what he wanted. France went to follow him when he caught a glimpse of two familiar figures lurking in the doorway. He turned quickly, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face, but he could still feel the soldiers’ cold pale eyes on him, their purpose here as plain as if they were shouting it.

His heart pounding loudly, France sought to remain calm. He was good, he was obedient now, no longer the same wild-eyed fugitive who resisted arrest when Prussia first caught up with him after the signing of armistice. But his body began to move on its own, and before long, France was pushing through the crowd as swiftly as he could, trying to find somewhere to hide out of sight, though his gorgeous dress was too tight around the hips and his heeled shoes not meant for running. 

What a coward, a part of him thought hysterically, no wonder England and the rest did not come to his rescue when the planes and tanks destroyed the last of his defenses. But that voice in his head was immediately quelled, and then all he could think of was finding Germany, Germany who still wanted him when the others did not…

One of the soldiers was stalking after him now, shouldering past the girl with dark hair, while the other went back through the hall to cover his flank. France knew this movement, had seen it before on the battlefield when the panzers first rolled through, and a wave of nausea from the memory almost made him stumble.

The two soldiers soon forced him out into an abandoned corridor, and he stood there alone in the darkness, trying to stifle a sob so they would not hear his distress. A hundred years ago, he knew he could have easily killed a half dozen men of their class without getting one strand of hair out of place, but now he was weakened, starved, and so, so frightened.

“Did you miss us? It has been a while, hasn’t it?” the taller one asked, and he did not look even winded from the chase.

“We almost didn’t recognize you. You look so different, wearing clothes, without your legs spread.”

“Stay back,” France warned, his voice too high and trembling to sound threatening. “I will tell Herr Weilschmidt, h-his brother…”

They paused and then chuckled as if this was a particularly funny joke, and he could smell the whiff of beer on their breaths even at this distance.

“You won’t need to tell them, they already know.”

France stared at them helplessly, unable to speak because of the bile rising in his throat. The two of them grabbed him and marched him out into the courtyard, bent him over the back of a lovely wooden bench. He found his voice then, but before he could say anything, someone pressed a gun to the back of his head.

“We will shoot you if you try to scream, but you are free to moan all you want.” The soldier hiked his skirts up, gloved fingers digging into his thigh, and France could hear them talking through the roaring of the blood in his ears - how he must be so tight now, they were going to tear him apart like the filthy slut he was, he should be grateful that they even wasted their time fucking him, and on and on, as if he were not even there.

\----

Even with the silencer, the gunshot sounded too loud in Germany’s ears, but the orchestra was playing a waltz loudly enough to conceal the sound of the girl’s body crumpling to the floor. Prussia went over and prodded her with a boot to make sure she was dead, and then clapped his brother on the back in congratulations.

At that moment, the two soldiers came back, dragging France in between them. Germany took one look at him and uttered a curse under his breath.

“Brother, can’t you keep your dogs under control?” he hissed, torn between maintaining authority and running to France’s side.

Prussia laughed, a harsh, sharp sound. “They did what they had to do, what you apparently were too soft to do.”

This answer did not seem to appease Germany, and Prussia shrugged, indifferent. “Look, it’s in the past now,” he said, sparing France only the briefest of sneers. “We won’t take much longer here, and I’ll be back later with the report.”

He motioned his men over to help drag the bodies of the resistance out, and they released France, who fell to his knees in silence.

Watching the three of them leave, Germany knelt down beside him. “I am sorry you had to be part of this. It was not my intention.”

France continued staring dumbly at the girl, the one with the dark hair he had winked at earlier in the evening. She had been part of the plot, working for the resistance, but she backed out at the last minute to save herself and her lover. Prussia killed her anyway; a spy was too much of a liability to keep alive.

It was a needless death, Germany had thought, though he did not question his brother’s action. But they would have to find another translator to replace her, since the ministry would miss her services.

“You know this would not have happened if everyone had cooperated as directed,” he continued stoically, and though France gave no indication that he had heard, the words still needed to be said. “Understand that once we purge the undesirables and eliminate the resistance within you, you will be at peace. You will become strong without these… anomalies to hold you back. It will hurt at first, but you will thank me later. This is for the best. This is for you… for us.”

Tears were rolling down his cheeks unabated, but France finally nodded in acknowledgement, and Germany gathered him in his arms, pressing his lips to his disheveled hair with surprising tenderness. “You must be tired. Let’s go back.”

France got to his feet with the tiniest of grimaces, refusing any assistance, and awkwardly, Germany drew out a handkerchief to dab at his tear-streaked face, aware of the dead girl’s eyes seemingly staring at him, accusing him of causing this pain though he played no direct part. Suddenly exhausted, he wished for Prussia to come back with his men so that this body could be taken away, but more than that, he wished France would stop smiling at him so expectantly, as if they were just a loving couple returning from a wonderful night out on the town. The sensual, secret curve of his lips, the lowered lashes and demurely tilted chin - that mockery of a smile chilled his blood much more than the corpse’s gaze ever could. Averting his eyes, Germany replaced the handkerchief and then took off his jacket to drape it over France’s bare shoulders, falling back into the routine of a gentleman gratefully.

They said nothing as they left the strains of music and conversation behind, walking hand in hand. Instead of stopping at France’s rooms, Germany led him back to his own suite, closing the door behind them for a moment of privacy. France took one look around the room, and promptly sat down on the bed, while Germany had to refrain from asking him to sit elsewhere.

“Here, drink this,” he said, offering France a glass of water laced with enough sedatives to knock out a regiment. France accepted the glass unquestioningly, gulping the water down without regard for grace or style.

There was a brief silence as he regarded Germany with glassy blue eyes, pupils dilated with the darkness and the drugs, the black uniform jacket sliding off his shoulders. As though his legs were made of lead shot, Germany cautiously approached him, kneeling down on one knee and taking one of France’s feet in his hands, surprised to see how delicate it looked resting between his square palms. He slid one thumb over the ankle, then undid the buckle and clasp of the shoe, setting it gently on the rug before repeating with the other foot. France seemed to have stopped breathing completely, and Germany glanced up in alarm, wondering if perhaps he might have given him too much medication. But then he took another breath and another, his cheeks coloring pink, which served to make Germany blush in return. Despite his initial discomfort, he continued stroking France’s calf with one hand, knuckles brushing against the back of his knee soothingly, patiently, and with a rustle of satin, the other nation sank back into mattress, sighing in surrender.

Hating himself for it, for becoming aroused at the sight of France like this, yellow hair splayed over the covers, eyes rimmed with bruising black, lips smeared with blood red scarlet; beaten, manipulated, abused, but still smiling for him… He is only a whore, only a slut, he told himself firmly, he loves this, he needs this, and other false words, over and over until they sounded true, as true as everything his boss had told him.

Surprisingly, his hands did not falter as they unbuttoned the beautiful red gown, sliding it off of France’s unresisting body and onto the floor, until he was clad only in the corset, the garter belt, the rest of the lacy undergarments. For his part, France seemed only too happy to undo his tie, his dress shirt, the buckle of his belt, the fly on his slacks, a breathless little laugh escaping from his mouth whenever Germany startled at his touch like a virgin. 

Through the ripped hose Germany could see the bruises forming on France’s skin, four bluish purple marks against the pale backdrop of one thigh, and his breath hitched, his hands pausing in their fumbling caresses. His mind reeled back from the sight in revulsion, but that disgust was nothing compared to the urgent heat suddenly pooling in his groin. 

And France was still smiling at him, thoroughly unashamed, even glorying in the attention, his legs parted and open, ready. Only for him now, if he would but take what was offered.

 

Germany hesitated, torn, and so France made up his mind for him, one leg hooking around his waist, pulling him inexorably closer. He reached forward, long cool fingers brushing over the bulge in Germany’s undergarment, petting and stroking and then drawing him out, caressing so sweetly at the heavy throbbing cock dripping precome into his hands, as if readying it for the pleasure that awaited.

When he could hold back no longer, Germany was forced to move, and it shamed him how easy it was to do, not even any preparation required after the other men had had their way. It shamed him how good it felt to press through that first slight resistance, only the faintest tug at the skin of the head, how good it then felt to slide in all the way, France’s body arcing up and welcoming him eagerly until he could not push in any further. He would do so if he could, make their bodies become truly one, but for now he savored the sensation of being this deep inside, the sound of France moaning under his breath as he tried to keep himself tight… how absolutely ravishing the other looked as he was being taken like this, being possessed and claimed. The last of his guilt giving way to something even more potent, Germany pulled back a little and then thrust forward sharply into that too-wet heat, clenching his teeth around the growl of pleasure that threatened to escape from his throat. With France’s lovely whorish cries encouraging him, practically begging him for more, he drove into him again and again, hips moving in a hard, relentless rhythm so that the bed rocked with each movement. It was too much, and yet not enough, and even as he came, groaning helplessly, Germany knew for a certainty that he would need more, everything that France could give him, and he would still not be satisfied. 

As he pulled out and rolled onto his side, he sought to suck air into his lungs, letting the sweat cool rapidly on his overheated skin, feeling absolutely drained but never better. He looked over at France, who was blinking sleepily, his gaze somewhere far away, his attention wherever the sedatives might have taken him. Horrified, Germany realized then at some point in time, the other nation had bitten through the skin of his lip, hard enough so that it bled and dripped down the side of his face, staining the white pillowcase below.

\-----

He had no idea where he was when he first woke up, and it took him a while to focus on the ceiling above, the clean sterile surroundings that was not his own pretty boudoir. His body seemed particularly reluctant to obey his brain’s commands to move, and he gave up after a few minutes, closing his eyes once more. Lying there, he could smell a familiar cologne lingering in the warm sheets, and underneath that the faintest hint of sex and blood barely masked by the scent of soap. He could make out the rumble of Germany’s voice in the room next door, and he listened for a few minutes, lulled back to sleep by the sound before the worst of his nightmares had a chance to draw him back in.


	3. Mesmerize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though I have a little more to write regarding this particular story, I feel that I've reached a good stopping point for this prompt, and any more would be irrelevant.

Germany hung up the telephone with a sigh, rubbing at his temples distractedly, wondering how his brother could be both efficient and irritating at the same time. Actually, Prussia had sounded frustrated himself, so things must not be going as well as they had hoped on the various fronts despite their best efforts. He knew he ought to be there alongside the troops with Prussia, not dallying here in conquered territory, but he could not bring himself to leave Paris just yet.

Checking his solemn reflection in the glass of the clock, Germany opened the door to the bedroom and quietly settled in an armchair. There was a small neat stack of documents on the bedside table that he had yet to review, but he only sat there waiting for France to wake up, his expression unreadable.

Once, he reached out as if planning to hold France’s hand, though he did not quite touch him before drawing back. Yet even that slight movement was enough, because then France shifted under the covers, his eyes gradually fluttering open. 

He licked his lips and whispered something, voice rusty from disuse, but Germany could not decipher what was said and had to lean in closer.

“Germany…?”

“Yes?”

“I am naked.” A weak little smile, and then, “Did you take off my clothes yourself, hmm?”

Germany sat back down, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. It seemed he had been worried about nothing, but he dared not press his luck, not when he had made such excellent progress.

“It would be best if you do not go out anymore,” he said. “I thought perhaps it was necessary for you to see… but no, that no longer matters. I cannot risk your safety. You have been moved here into my rooms for this reason, to keep you safe from those who might hurt you. Including your own citizens…”

Somehow, he found the lies easier to speak this time around, and he could even meet the other nation’s eyes without betraying any trace of what he knew, what he had done.

“I trust that from now on, you will endeavor to control yourself. I do not need to remind you about the repercussions if you should fail to do so, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” France murmured obediently.

“Good.” Germany cleared his throat, relieved that France did not question him about what had happened that night. “You… have done very well, Frankreich. I am proud of you.”

He would have patted him on the head, like he would one of the dogs used by the regime to hunt down undesirables and rebels and spies, but instead he left and after a few minutes, returned with a tray of food.

Ignoring the porridge, France reached for the demitasse of coffee eagerly, bringing the delicate cup to his mouth, savoring the coffee’s aroma and taste, unadulterated by the chicory that had to be added during these times of rationing. Such a small pleasure, but he felt invigorated after a few careful sips, and flashed a thankful smile at his most generous benefactor.

At his side, Germany was observing him closely as always, his hands curled into tight fists on his knees. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, as if he knew something more was expected of him, and eventually, he bent towards France, who turned his head at the exact time to receive a light peck on the corner of his mouth.

It seemed to surprise them both, yet they recovered quickly, and Germany said nothing as France let out a soft chuckle and remarked on how forward he had become after a few short weeks here with the nation of love.

Does he even realize, Germany thought, despairing, and he made his escape as soon as he could.

 

Long after Germany had left to attend a meeting with the officers and ministers, after he had taken a bath and combed out his hair and chosen a new dressing gown to wear, France could still feel the heat of the kiss like a brand tattooed on his skin. So hot, he could not think of anything else as he waited for him to return, and kept touching his cheek with trembling fingers.

From within the mirror, Marianne stared back at him, her lips moving in time with his, but what she might have said he did not hear over the other whispers and mutters that occupied his attention.

 

 

It was nearly nine in the evening by the time Germany could excuse himself from the meeting, and he hurried back to his rooms, wondering how France had fared in the meantime. He opened the door and stepped through before realizing what he had forgotten in his haste to leave. But he had only a second to berate himself before France glided over to him, seeming refreshed and as picturesque as ever. Setting his hat aside and squaring his shoulders, Germany nodded, which was all the invitation that France needed to embrace him and ask him how he was.

“The war has been progressing satisfactorily,” Germany began uncertainly, but France laughed and shook his head.

“What do I care about the war? I was asking about you. How are you feeling?” His voice was soothing, his smile wide and ingenuous. “You look so stressed. Is there anything I may do for you?”

France let his hands drift down his arms, and Germany’s gaze followed the movement, lingering briefly over the frail naked body just barely covered by the silk robe. But he had to refuse, citing work that needed to be completed by tomorrow, and he nearly thanked France for the offer when he remembered that he was the one in charge of their relationship here.

Even after that, he could not find peace, for France followed him into his office like a washed-out shadow, and as much as he tried to concentrate on the printed words before him, he was distracted by France’s presence behind his left shoulder, the deliciously heady scent of his washed hair stealing into his nostrils. He took one last deep breath, and perhaps more forcefully than intended, he asked if France didn’t have something else to be doing. The other nation cringed away, as if he had been struck, and after apologizing profusely, he sank to his knees and fell silent. 

Germany reluctantly returned to examining the internal ministry’s dossier on production quotas to be set for the upcoming year, and he nearly jumped out of his chair in shock when he felt something warm on his knee. Glancing down hurriedly, he saw that France had crept to his side and had rested his head on his lap. But he did not seem to be attempting anything else, just sitting still on the carpet, eyes closed, apparently content to just be with Germany even in this manner. It was somehow… reassuring.

Or rather, it was until France opened his eyes and reached up with one exploratory hand, brushing against the fabric of the uniform purposefully. His fingers met the hardness he had been expecting, and Germany, flushing an angry shade of crimson, tried to swat his hands away.

“France… I-I am busy!” Germany hissed in desperation. But he had made himself vulnerable and now could not bring up his defenses in time, not when he wanted this, ever since that night, he wanted---

Ignoring the excuse, France moved in between Germany’s legs, hands still working at the stiff bulge at the crotch of his slacks, until Germany finally groaned and shoved himself back from his desk so as to get a better view and to give him more room. But he had not forgotten completely about propriety, and he begged France to not make a mess in the office, at which France simply smiled and nodded.

It was so easy how he got him to full hardness, before unzipping his slacks and freeing his erection from its confines. He watched, his breathing ragged and harsh, as France began to pump him with languid, measured strokes, every now and then murmuring words of praise in that low, sensual voice, a prostitute’s practiced tone. But the moment his lips touched the underside of his shaft was an explosion of pleasure, and Germany gasped again when France began lapping at his cock, gently kissing and sucking up and down his length as his fingers continued their stroking. He took only the very tip of his cock into his mouth at first, smooth warm tongue licking away at the drops of precome welling from the slit. Then France parted his lips further, letting him slide in deeper, while he hummed and sucked and tried to swallow around the heavy cock completely filling his throat, threatening to steal his breath away. Just when he started seeing stars at the edge of his vision, he backed off slightly, putting pressure with his tongue, and smiled to hear a sharp intake of breath and a growled curse in German somewhere above.

After that, Germany began moving in earnest, his fingers curling into France’s hair to hold him still as he plunged back into that welcoming mouth. Again and again, each thrust driving him closer to climax, until his entire body tightened for one blissful moment, and he came, spilling himself into France, who swallowed him down eagerly until there was nothing left to drink. Only then did France let the softening cock fall from his mouth, and he used the sleeve of his robe to dry off the last of the wetness, so that Germany’s spotless uniform would not be ruined.

Drained, but sated, Germany sat back in his chair as France tucked him back into his slacks and then looked up at him, seeking his approval. Feeling too dazed to think of anything coherent to say, Germany settled for petting his hair. That was enough for France, who nuzzled at his hand and sighed happily at having done a good job.

 

He would wake up early tomorrow to finish his paperwork, but for now, he undressed and laid down beside France in the bed, listening to him babble about nothing important, nothing about the war, nothing about his allies who would not help him, nothing about Prussia’s soldiers who had raped him, nothing about the two who kept him trapped and helpless in his own capital as his children starved and suffered and died all around him. 

None of the windows were barred, none of the doors to Germany’s rooms had been locked from the outside, and with the changing of the guards, with his blond hair and blue eyes, his command of the language, France could have left, taking all of the top secret plans and confidential communications he could find. He might have even made it all the way to England before anyone here realized he was gone.

“Germany? You would not leave me, would you?” France whispered, clearly worried but trying to sound brave. Germany said no, reassured him they would never be apart, though they might be separated by great distances, and that seemed to comfort him. 

It did not escape his notice, their sharing a bed like lovers, and after France drifted off to sleep, Germany gathered him into his arms, so that the sound of their heartbeats was like one united pulse.


End file.
